


Supply Run

by AMaroonKindOfOrange (XylB)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Set in season 12, Slightly Canon-Divergent, but they worked with the rebels more before going off by themselves, do i care?, injured Simmons, never written anything this fluffy before, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 05:54:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7789216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XylB/pseuds/AMaroonKindOfOrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grif doesn't realize what he had until he almost lost it. </p><p>(Or, the one where Simmons get hurt and Grif doesn't cope as well as he thought he would.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supply Run

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [ugandadistrict9](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ugandadistrict9/works)!

At first, Grif doesn't think anything of it. It's a standard supply run, and that does usually mean raiding pirate bases, but they're small and understaffed - a quick job. Grif crouches behind cover and lets his squad shoot down the pirates while he tries to reach Simmons. So when he calls Simmons' name for the fourth time, he thinks Simmons is just busy or ignoring him, the little bitch. 

Although Simmons doesn't usually potentially jeopardise missions because Grif took his fries. So he tries again. 

"Simmons?" Nothing.   
"Oh for fuck's sake, I'm sorry about the goddamn fries!" Still nothing. 

Then there's a wet cough through his radio and a groan that sounds distinctly Simmons-like. 

"Simmons?"   
"Help - " Simmons breaks off into a series of messy choking sounds and Grif can hear gunfire in the background.   
"Simmons? Simmons, where are you?"   
"Seventy seven, twenty nine - " oh my god, he's trying to give Grif _coordinates_ , the nerd.   
"Just tell me where the fuck you are!"   
"Near - near the turret - " his words are slurred and that's definitely not good.   
Bitters throws a grenade and Grif flinches at the explosion that erupts on the other side of their makeshift fort, but signals to his squad to move forward. He snags Bitters before he leaves.   
"Bitters, finish the mission. I'm gonna find Simmons."  
"Okay," Bitters sighs before he vaults over the fort. Grif rolls his eyes and opens his comm line again.   
"Simmons. Simmons!"   
"Whu - yeah? Whatdya wan'?"   
"Simmons, stay with me. Where's your team?"   
"They - went on."   
Grif groans because of _course_ Simmons had to go play the hero and leave himself behind.   
"'S not - their fault - they - no medic - medical suppli-suppl's."   
"Simmons?"   
"'M tired, Grif."   
"No, no, Simmons, don't fall asleep. Stay awake - " Grif surveys his surroundings and spots the turret, and then sees the red squad fighting off a group of pirates. 

He's at least two minutes away from the turret, more with the snipers shooting at him. He checks his HUD and the readout tells him he hasn't got much biofoam left. 

"Simmons."  
A grunt.   
"Simmons, talk to me."  
"'Bout wha'?"   
"Anything. Just talk." Grif shoots the pirate about to kill Bitters and then runs behind the closest building. It's an alley, thin and dark, but Grif watches for snipers.   
"There's a lotta blood, Grif. Can't tell - 's blending with my armour - " a weak laugh followed by a pained groan.   
"Don't focus on that. Tell me about - tell me about anything else." Grif kicks the next pirate motherfucker he runs into, his foot rammed hard under his chest plate. He shoots him in the head as he walks by. 

Grif crouches low and sticks to the shadows as he navigates his way to the turret through the maze of buildings. 

"Prolly should've tried harder with m'dad. Never wanted – aw, _fuck_ \- never wanted me like this."   
"Happy things, Simmons, talk about happy things," Grif says through gritted teeth as he punches another asshole in the throat. "Come on, what do you like?"   
"Video games. Books. D&D - " cough " - used to play that with m'friends after school - apple tarts, programming. You - " more coughs.   
"So, nerd stuff - wait, what?" Grif swallows down his concern and eyes up the big fucking open space he has to cross to get to the turret - to Simmons.  
A beat and Grif stops, hides behind a crate.   
"Simmons?"  
"Yeah." Simmons sounds resigned.   
"Well you could have chosen a better time to tell me that!"   
"Didn't - didn't want you to - " violent coughing now - Grif's got to get over there, fast " - to hate me."   
"Oh you fucking - " Grif doesn't finish his sentence before a hail of bullets hits dangerously close to his left leg and he yelps.   
"Grif?"   
"Hold on, Simmons." 

Grif steps out and shoots the douche on the roof before just saying fuck it and running full out across the wide open space. He feels a bullet glance off his helmet and he nearly falls over in shock, but he powers through the pain - god he hates running - and makes it safely onto the other side. 

"Simmons, where are you? I'm near the turret." 

"Simmons?" 

"Simmons?!" 

"Simmons!" 

So Grif goes tearing down his alley, quickly glancing down more before he sees a pile of maroon at the end of one of them. He calls for Simmons as he races towards him (seriously, _fuck_ running). 

Grif drops to his knees the moment he's next to Simmons, unclipping the biofoam from his own suit and then focusing on undoing Simmons' armour. 

It's hard to tell the blood from the maroon, so Grif unseals Simmons' helmet and carefully lifts it off. There's spit and blood all down his chin and more bubbling out of his mouth. Simmons' laboured breathing is the only sign he's alive, but at Grif's touch his human eye opens, flicking down to - to where he's clutching himself, blood seeping through his fingers. 

"Stay with me, Simmons, stay awake," Grif has to push away the high note of panic as he begins to shuffle Simmons down so he's on his back.   
"Hurts," Simmons wheezes. There's tears in his human eye.   
"Just - Just stay with me, okay?" Grif moves Simmons' hand and gets his chest plate off. 

He steals Simmons' knife to cut through the kevlar and has to look away for a moment when he sees the wound. God, it's ugly, a mess of bullets - Grif can see at least four - and it's a miracle Simmons hasn't died by now. Grif guesses it's because of all the fucking robot parts that are now slippery with blood. 

Grif shakes the biofoam can and sprays it liberally over the wound. It'll stop any more bleeding, but they need to get the bullets out before they fuck Simmons up even more. 

"Simmons - Simmons stay with me," Grif looks at his - his friend, goddamnit, too pale and too quiet and this isn't the Simmons he knows - this isn't the Simmons he _wants_. 

"Simmons - " a hand closes around his own where he's pressing on the biofoam to make sure it stays (biofoam's quick working, he _knows_ , but - but this is Simmons and he can't take any chances). Grif looks down and slowly flips his hand, wrapping his fingers around Simmons' hand. He opens a comm line.

"Bitters."   
A crackle and then a voice pushing through the static.   
"Yeah?"   
"What's happening up there?"   
"Uh, we're almost done. Just a few more - " sudden burst of gunfire " - no more pirates, actually. Just have to get the supplies."  
"Bitters, I need you to get a Warthog and get it around to the turret."   
"Right now?"   
"Fucking - yes, Bitters, right fucking now!"   
"Okay, jeez, I'm coming. Over and out." 

"Oughta beat the attitude right out of him," Grif says. Simmons smiles, just the faintest trace, but to Grif it's a victory. 

He squeezes Simmons' hand and Simmons squeezes back weakly. 

"Grif - " And then Simmons chokes and Grif hurriedly pushes him up into his side so he can cough out blood onto the dirty pavement.   
"Hey Simmons. Sorry about your fries."   
Simmons chuckles for a second before he starts crying.   
"Simmons?"   
"Hurts - hurts so _bad_ , Grif."   
"It's okay, it'll be okay, we'll get - " Grif has to swallow his emotion but his voice still breaks " - we'll get you back to base. You don't - You can't - " Grif folds and rests his helmet on Simmons' arm. "You don't get to die on me." 

Then it's silent until the Warthog drives up, and from then on it's a flurry of movement. 

\----

"Captain Grif!" 

Grif sighs. "Yes?" 

"Are you even paying attention?" 

"No." 

"Dude, really?" Tucker cuts in. "It's been, like, two minutes." 

Grif shrugs. Kimball groans and starts over. 

"Captain Grif. You and your squad will be going to - " 

And she gives him the mission briefing - again, but all Grif can think of is the four bullets lodged inside Simmons and whether he's out of surgery yet. It's been two days since they've returned, but with the understaffed hospital and the fact that apparently biofoam makes surgery a lot harder, Simmons has been in and out of surgery for two whole fucking days. 

"Grif. Dude." Tucker's voice slices through his thoughts and Grif is slammed back into the now.   
"Captain Grif." Kimball's speaking through gritted teeth and she sounds _pissed_. "Did you hear me?" 

"Fuck this." Is all Grif says. 

"Excuse me?" Kimball steps closer. 

"Fuck. This." And Grif turns around and leaves. 

"Captain Grif, if you leave this room you will be demoted." 

Grif shrugs. "Fuck it." And walks right out the door. 

Total maverick move. 

\----

The rooms have two beds in each. Tucker shares a room with Caboose, and Grif shares one with Simmons. 

They - the Captains - are kind of separated from the other soldiers, all of them in one corner of the bunker on the first floor up. There are other commanders on their floor, too, but they're pretty quiet. The lieutenants live below them on the ground floor. 

Except Grif can't sleep without the familiar in-out-hiss-click of Simmons and his goddamn robot lung. It's way too quiet and Grif's never liked quiet. 

His clock says four a.m. and he has to do drills in two hours, but instead of half-heartedly dozing for two hours, he gets up. Considers if it's too cold outside, but he figures the sweats and T-shirt the rebels gave them will be warm enough. He slips on his armoured boots - the only footwear he has - before he goes. 

The bunks aren't far from the hospital. Grif shuffles over to it, boots clunking against the ground. The hospital is full of beds, some with privacy covers and some without. Not many of the beds are occupied right now, but that'll change by next week. The general ward is used for wounded soldiers but there's a few private rooms for serious injuries.   
Grif finds Simmons in one of those at the far end of the hospital. 

The door swings silently on its hinges but the chair legs squeal against the floor as Grif drags it up to the bed. Simmons is too pale against the bedsheets, his skin bright in contrast to the dull metal of his cybernetics. 

Grif gently rests an arm next to Simmons' on the bed, tangles his fingers with Simmons' as he stares dully at the bandages swathed around Simmons' torso. 

He closes his eyes and lays his head on his arm, shifting in his chair to make himself comfortable as he settles in to sleep. 

The hospital machines whir in the background, but Grif focuses on the familiar in-out-hiss-click of Simmons' breathing. 

\----

Not only has Grif been demoted, he's been assigned to Tucker (thanks, Kimball). And Tucker's enjoying it way too much, the fuck. 

"Hey Grif! Keep running!" Grif gives him the finger where he's bracing himself on his knees, catching his goddamn breath for once. 

Tucker jogs up and stands in front of him, hands on his hips. The lieutenants run past them. 

"You gonna run or do I have to tell Kimball you're not cooperating?" 

Grif pants. 

"Grif." 

_Simmons is dying gotta run gotta get there in time gotta save him - can't - don't die on me - and Grif remembers the weight of Simmons' hand on his and the weight of him when Grif lifted him into the Warthog and he remembers Basic and he remembers Simmons geeking out over some new computer system in Valhalla and he remembers fucking around in the Warthog, driving Lopez crazy and he remembers - he remembers - he remembers that smile Simmons gave him before he passed out and he remembers the sound of Simmons crying - screaming when they operated that first night back be uses it was too dangerous to sedate him - had to get the biofoam out of the way to see the damage - and Grif remembers sitting outside the OR and he remembers how terribly quiet his room is at night and he remembers -_

"Grif!" And Tucker's shaking his shoulders - when did he straighten up? - and getting right in his face.   
"Grif?" He says when Grif doesn't answer, and it's then that Grif realises he's hyperventilating and he can't get enough air - not enough - and he pushes Tucker back and unseals his own helmet, pulls it off and slams it against Tucker's chest, Tucker who goes to grab it when Grif backs off, his eyes wide.   
"Grif?"   
"This is such bullshit," Grif says, glaring at Tucker. "Such fucking - bullshit!" 

He walks away. 

\----

Grif skips dinner. After walking away from drills, the last ones before dinner, he headed to the hospital, still in armour. 

He doesn't know if Simmons is in a coma or just sleeps a lot, but he's too afraid to ask. 

He falls asleep earlier than usual that night, fingers laced through Simmons', and when he wakes up at six, his helmet is resting on Simmons' leg. 

He meets Tucker on the training field after breakfast. 

"I - uh - went to your room to return your helmet, but - uh - you weren't there."   
"How'd you find me?"   
Tucker shrugs. "Medic told me."   
"Ah."   
"So." Tucker clears his throat. "So, uh, how many nights you been sleeping there?"   
"Some."   
"You, um, you wanna talk about it?"   
"No."   
"Cool." 

And Tucker makes Grif run. 

\----

It's Tuesday when it happens. 

Grif lays his head down on his arm, tangles his fingers with Simmons', and squeezes it twice - something he's taken to doing every night before he sleeps. 

But this time Simmons squeezes back. It's faint, but there. 

Grif's eyes snap open but he doesn't move, just squeezes again to test it. He gets another squeeze in return. 

"Simmons?"   
"Mm." 

Grif starts to lift his head, but Simmons squeezes twice in rapid succession and he takes it as a sign to stay where he is. So he does. 

He squeezes. Simmons responds. 

Grif sleeps. 

\----

Simmons get out of hospital in the middle of drills, and he limps out supported by two crutches. 

Grif only sees him because he's taking an illegal break from Tucker's laps and currently getting lectured by Tucker. 

Grif sees him exiting the hospital over Tucker's shoulder, and then he pushes Tucker aside and starts jogging. 

Unfortunately Tucker follows, but at an actual running pace, but Grif just jogs until he comes to a panting stop beside Simmons, who's staring at him, wide-eyed. 

"Simmons." Is all he says.   
"Grif," Simmons replies with a wry smile. "Didn't think I'd ever see you run."   
"Eh, it was more of a jog."   
He hears Tucker curse behind him and he tosses him a shit-eating grin.   
"Are you really gonna try and get me back there?" Grif says.   
"Fuck it. Have fun." Tucker raises his hands in defeat and starts jogging away.   
Simmons chuckles weakly and Grif whips his head back around to see Simmons smiling at him.   
"So why are you running with Tucker?"   
Grif shrugs. "I got demoted."   
"Shocking." Simmons deadpans, but he's still smiling. 

\----

"Hey, Grif?" 

Uh-oh. That's Simmons _worry_ voice. 

"Yeah?" They're sitting on a bench somewhere in the New Republic base, taking a break from Simmons' PT. Well, Simmons is taking a break. Grif's always on break. 

"You know when I, uh, when I said I - liked you?" Simmons is hyper focused on the thread he's picking at on his shorts, some cargo affair the hospital gave him.   
"Yeah?" Grif says slowly.   
"I, um, I wanted you to know that - uh - it doesn't - it doesn't have to make things weird between us." 

Simmons is the only guy Grif knows who can look embarrassed while half-cyborg and covered in scars. But he can see Simmons is getting more agitated the longer his silence continues, pulling even harder at that thread. 

So Grif scoots his butt over and puts his hand on top of Simmons', the one resting on the bench between them. He squeezes twice. Simmons responds in kind. 

"It won't," he says. Simmons' shoulders relax and Grif holds on to his hand a little tighter. 

\----

That night, Grif's lying awake in his bed, listening to the comforting in-out-hiss-click. 

"Hey Grif."   
"Yeah?"   
"Why did you sleep in the hospital?"   
"Too quiet."   
"What do you mean?"   
"Too quiet without - you."   
"Oh." 

A few minutes of silence. 

"Hey Grif."   
"Yeah?"   
"It helped."   
"What did?"   
"You sleeping with me - in the hospital." 

Grif wants to make a dirty joke, but he can't bring himself to do it. 

\----

Grif helps Simmons get back into his armour a week after he left hospital, and it's actually pretty funny. 

Simmons can't reach his bottom half - too much pressure on his gun wound to bend over - so he's half black and half maroon and totally pathetic. He's tried sitting on the bed and that didn't help, so now he's just standing in the middle of their room, helpless. 

"Grif, come help me." Ah, yes, there's that whine Grif is so familiar with. 

Grif bursts into laughter again at Simmons' millionth attempt to slide on his boots without his hands. 

"Grif, please."  
"Oh, all right, all right." Grif fights down his laughter and kneels to help latch on Simmons' armour. It's quick work, and he checks all of Simmons' plates are secure as he stands up.   
"You big baby," he teases as he knocks his forehead against Simmons'. Their helmets are still on their hooks. 

Grif doesn't know why he stays there as long as he does - it was supposed to be a gentle headbutt, not whatever - whatever this is - but his forehead is still against Simmons' and in spur-of-the-moment decision he kisses him. 

Simmons tenses for a moment before relaxing into it, kissing back gently. 

It's a nice kiss, not wet and messy and dirty, just a chaste press of lips but it feels right. 

Grif pulls away first but he doesn't move much further. Their foreheads still touch. 

"Grif..." Simmons starts. Grif doesn't let him finish.   
"It wasn't a fucking pity kiss. I actually, genuinely - maybe - like you."   
"Maybe?" But Grif sees the little smile on his lips. God, he'd do anything to keep it there.   
"Eh. I guess I can stretch for definitely."   
"Yeah. Okay," Simmons mumbles as he kisses him again.


End file.
